When the Sun Rises in the East
by Ariadne's Folly
Summary: Though technically a very slow burning Dany/Arya femslash fic, not knowing the ending is driving me nuts. So this is my interpretation of the events following A Dance with Dragons. Rated M, since the books also are. I apologize in advance, since I am a very sporadic poster.
1. Prologue

**When the Sun Rises in the East**

_**Author's** **Note: **This story takes place shortly after ADwD. And while it is 'technically' going to be a slashfic involving Arya and Dany, I believe one cannot write this world while focusing solely on a handful of characters. So, in summation, this will probably be me trying to finish out the ASOIAF plotline, though some of the paths I think Martin is taking are too long for my tastes so I've altered them, but other than that I try to true to the clues he left. This fic is M rated, since I believe the books are as well and I want the writing to reflect that. Because romance is involved I'm going to go with the HBO series and age everyone three years, making her 12 at the start of the book series and at least 14 when she enters the house of Black and White, since travelling through most of Westeros and sailing across the Narrow Sea can't be done in a matter of months._

**Prologue**

The red woman watched as the solemn men stood ringed around an oil soaked bier. Despite Lord Snow's preference for the heathen gods of the North, and the Watch's tradition for burying their fallen Commanders in the earth, she was unwilling to take chances where the minions of the Other were concerned. She had prepared the body in the manner taught to her by the Red Temple. When it came time for the final rite, she found herself hesitant and superstitious.

Many myths surrounded the last kiss, most of them relics of ages long past, with heroes rising up from certain death to stave off darkness. She filled her mouth with fire and pressed her lips against his, feeling the cold stillness of them. She exhaled, transmitting the power of red R'hllor into his lifeless corpse. Melisandre found herself holding her breath as she finished, expecting a miracle. A light snow began to fall, as her god answered her with silence.

Bowen Marsh stepped forward into the swirling flakes, clearing his voice as he addressed the huddled brothers.

"He came to us a green boy from Winterfell, wanting to follow in his uncle Benjen's footsteps and become a ranger of the Night's Watch. While he served with us, he became Lord Commander and so much more than he ever dreamed of. His name was Jon Snow, and now his watch is ended."

"_And now his watch is ended_." The other brothers murmured. Some looked relieved, glad to be rid of the troublesome and possibly traitorous Commander. While those who loved Snow looked on with hard eyes, and nursed grudges in their angry hearts. Melisandre wondered which group was the greater danger.

The mourners looked up suddenly as a flash of dark plumage took wing overhead. Above them, the bird that had belonged to the former Lord Commander circled, cawing _"Snow! Jon Snow!"_

"I'd mourn too, if I'd lost my personal larder." Quipped Dolorous Edd Tollett, the sour faced brother known for his complaining.

Bowen Marsh took the brand he held in his hand and dipped it into a lit torch. The soaked wrappings flamed to life, and he walked toward the pyre, lowering the brand towards the kindling. The raven took offense to this, swooping down and violently pecking at Marsh's outstretched hand. _"End!"_ It screamed. _"Jon Snow!"_

Othell Yarwyck stepped in, brushing the furious bird off and snatching Longclaw from a sheath at his hip, he swiped at the air around them, making sure the raven kept its distance.

"And now his watch is ended." Marsh repeated, throwing the torch into the bier and watching it take flame. He held his injured hand tightly as a few errant drops of blood fell to the ground below, freezing as they hit.

The wood caught quickly, and it wasn't long before a thick column of smoke was rising through the falling snow. An unearthly howling split the air, and a sobbing brother bolted through the masses, looking as though he were trying to throw himself onto the flames with his lord. Seized by grief and madness, the brother beat away the burning wood with his bare hands. His tears fell on the scalding ashes, to disappear into a puff of steam.

Edd Tollett and Grenn, the one known as Aurochs, rushed forward to grab him before he grievously injured himself. Together they threw him to the ground, away from the flames, and plunged his hands deep into the freezing snow. Melisandre recognized the one they called Satin, Lord Snow's former steward and squire. His normally glossy hair was tangled and disheveled, and the face of the beautiful boy was blistered and smeared with soot from the fire.

The assembled brothers looked uncomfortable with this display, and a low muttering started among them. Loudest of the voices was the drunken Septon Cellador. "Filthy catamite." He spat.

Othell Yarwyck turned his back to the bonfire as the flames rose higher, shouting down the Septon's accusations. "He is your sworn brother." He turned to the two men helping Satin. "Aurochs, Tollett, have Clydas see to his injuries and bind his hands, he is not to leave his room again this night."

The two men nodded, each placing a shoulder beneath the sobbing Satin's arms. They gingerly lifted him and slowly walked back to the warmth of Castle Black.

Bowen turned and addressed the crowd, "And now, if there are no further interruptions, those who have converted to the Lord of Light have approached me with a wish that the Lady Melisandre speak some words."

The red woman turned toward the flames, her eyes piercing the veil to see the visions R'hllor brought with this fire.

She touched the ruby at her throat. It flared with the power of her god, and the fire burned hotter and brighter in response. Those closest to the flames shied back and covered their faces in fear of being burned. These men knew so little, they should be embracing the flames, for only they could save them from the Long Night and the powers wielded by the Other.

The sun sank below the tall crest of the Wall, plunging the group into the darkness of night. She began her evening prayer. "The night is dark and full of terrors."

"Seven save us!" Burst a voice to her left, startling her.

"Other! It's a wight." Came a different shout. Melisandre turned, confused, in time to see Othell Yarwyck's face freeze into a mask of fear. A figure stepped forth from the flames, charred and smoking. It reached out a hand towards the sword sheathed at Yarwyck's hip. Othell backed away in terror, clamoring for his brothers to come and defend him. The corpse stepped closer, and the burning fingers grazed the smooth stone pommel of Longclaw. Upon touching the hilt, the strength fled the fiery corpse and it toppled to the ground.

Everyone froze, afraid to act. The imminent danger seemed to have passed and no one was issuing orders. Yarwyck started to shout again and Melisandre saw him fling the sword away and into the nearest snow bank. The weapon was hot, and quickly sank deep into the drift. She stepped towards it, curious, and saw that the scabbard had been burned away. The Valyrian steel was afire, the metal burning without being consumed.

The words of the past rang in her ears.

_He will be born amidst smoke and salt._

She saw the soot and tears covering the young Steward's face.

_I pray for a glimpse of Azor Ahai, and R'hllor shows me only Snow._

Had she erred that greatly? Only Stannis had the true blood of the kings running through his veins...

_Any cat may stare into a fire and see red mice at play._

Her own words echoed back, haunting her. She remembered the countless number of times she had needed to aid Stannis in his conquest, be it with shadows or glamours, while it had seemed that Jon's conquests had needed no help from her at all.

_I've been a fool._

"Stand back." She ordered of the brothers, taking a pinch of powder from within her sleeve and throwing it on the flames. The fire spiked toward the heavens and roared, sending the would be attackers scrambling. She threw herself down near the charred body, needing to know the truth, to see the error of her ways.

"Jon, I am sorry, I could not see before, but my path is clear." Melisandre shook the still body, feeling the residual heat scald her palms.

A moment passed, and nothing happened, and for a brief instant her faith was shaken.

Then a gasp sounded and the corpse's eyes flew open, white pits in a blackened face. The eyes locked with hers, the normal wintry grey of the Starks transmuted into a deep violet. Jon gripped her arm tightly, so much that it pained her.

"She's coming." He whispered.


	2. Ch 1 - Cressio

**When the Sun Rises in the East**

_**A/N:**__ To assuage anyone's fears, I'm not actually doing All of the POV plotlines, though I may insert a new one from time to time if I find it necessary. Martin juggles with 16 balls or so, I'm probably going to stay between 3 and 5. Still trying to figure out how the prologue timeline fits in with the rest of the chapters. I am playing with the idea of Jon preparing up in the North for several months in real time, while all Free Cities/Essos POV chapters are done in the future by six months to a year. Also, don't hit me for introducing an OC, he's not technically out of canon ;)_

**Chapter 1**

The striped sails of the Lyseni galley billowed in the wind. Cressio Menaris stood at the prow, feeling the salt spray coat his face and stream down his chin. It had been two years since he last set foot on a ship, and he had been a wholly different person then. Now he was a man, or at least, as much of a man as any eunuch could be, and he had a mission.

He had been no one during his training as an acolyte in the House of Black and White, and that was all to the good. No one had no family, no friends, and certainly no one looking for them. Though he had been headstrong at the start, eventually he realized the true nature of those who chose to serve the Many-Faced God.

_Valar dohaeris _was as much a part of their training as _valar morghulis_; it had just taken him a long time to accept and understand. Without the chains of servitude, those who gave the Gift were much too dangerous. People themselves are fickle, treacherous, and power hungry. Had the Gift not come at such a great price, there would not be a man left standing anywhere from the western coast of the Seven Kingdoms to the Shadow of Asshai.

Cressio, however, was not here to give anyone the Gift, at least not yet. He had been sent as an emissary of the Iron Bank of Braavos. His job was to present this supposed Queen of the Andals an offer of aid. The Iron Bank would assist her in taking back the throne, provided she would continue repayment of the Crown's debt.

They had come to him shortly after he had learned to cast his first true glamour.

_"Who are you?" They had asked the acolyte._

_"No one."_

_And they had looked for lies, as they had a thousand times before. _

_This time, however, there was no reprimand, no accusation of falsehood. This time, there was only service._

_"Do you know of the Iron Bank?" They had asked._

_"Everyone knows of the Iron Bank."_

_"Just so." They had said. "Everyone needs the Iron Bank, but the Iron Bank needs no one. Who are you?"_

_"No one."_

_"_Valar morghulis."

"Valar dohaeris."

They gave the acolyte a name and a face and a uniform and sent Cressio out to find the Mother of Dragons. Intelligence gathered around the queen suggested that after taking Mereen with the help of a company of sellswords, she was heading northwest towards the Free Cities. What business the Breaker of Chains had in the Free Cities, where slavery had been outlawed since they had fled Old Valyria, no one knew. It was for precisely this reason that they were sending Cressio, so that no one could find out.

The Iron Bank had booked him passage on a merchanter's galley heading south to Lys, and from there he would ferry to the mainland, buy a horse and find the Targaryan queen at all costs. The Iron Bank had meant at all costs, they did not joke when it came to gold. He had been provisioned for any and all financial situations. Cressio had numerous chests of gold and silver in addition to a sheaf of scrolls bearing the Bank's seal. These scrolls were good for any amount he cared to write, provided the bearer had not taken them from his corpse and his personal phrase and seal were affixed to them.

Sailing this late into Autumn, or Winter, (depending on which rumors you believed) was treacherous at best and thoroughly deadly at the worst. The sailors onboard were a superstitious folk, and prayed to any gods who might listen while sailing in sight of the coast as often as they could.

Cressio left them to their gods and their prayers. He had learned long ago that the only god who made any sense was the nameless, Many-Faced God of Death. He would retreat to his cabin at night when they lit the nightfires to R'hllor. Tossing fitfully, he would try to sleep.

Cressio had given up saying his prayers long ago, for they were burned deep into his heart now, and besides, those words belonged to someone else. It was not the chanting that kept him from sleeping, but the dreams.

Try as he might, he would see the forest and the pack every night. He still exhilarated in the feeling of power the Alpha gave him. She was so much stronger and faster than her little grey cousins. She could take down man or horse or aurochs, it mattered not, so long as the hunt was fierce and the kill triumphant. Cressio's heart would soar with her, elated as they gorged on meat, the taste of lifeblood hot on the tongue.

This night was different, it had been a large, inky black destrier. Running through the forest before the pack, the big animal had slipped and broken a foreleg, screaming as it went down. As the night wolf charged to rip out the beast's throat and end its suffering before the pack descended, she was bowled over by another form.

It was another wolf, sleek and shaggy and grey-brown, and just as large as she was. Her instinct was to fight, to dominate, she growled before her nose caught up with her. _Pack_. It said to her. _Home._ She sniffed the air hesitantly, still not believing it was one of her missing brothers.

The newcomer backed up, not bristling, but not submitting either. The golden eyes met hers and a name tried to form, some useless man sound that meant nothing. She growled in frustration as a raven came swooping down, quorking. The she-wolf snapped at it halfheartedly before it landed next to her, preening its feathers as it examined her with beady black eyes.

"_Wall." _It screamed at her. "_Jon. Wall!_"

Cressio woke with a start, drenched in sweat. His heart raced as two names stuck fast to his tongue. In reflex, he reached out in the pitch dark for his sword. "Needle." He whispered, as he forgot himself.

But this was another sword, the Braavo's blade and dagger the Bank had given him. Needle belonged to that girl Arya Stark, buried underneath the stepstones of the House of Black and White.

Arya Stark was dead, Cressio knew.

He was certain of it, having done the deed himself. But her brothers had need of her. Her pack was calling.

Who would answer?


	3. Ch 2 - Daenerys

**When the Sun Rises in the East**

**_A/N: _**_So I haven't done too badly with my posting timelines (yet). I'll attempt to try and post a 1200wd chapter per week, at least. A big thank you to everyone who commented so far, and all the favorites and story follow alerts do a great job of putting a big silly grin on my face (since this is my first foray into ASOIAF)._

**Chapter 2: Daenerys**

Khal Jhaqo had found her, surrounded by his blood riders. Mago rode at his side, looking down at her from his mount. His eyes were arrogant and cruel.

"She is a beast, my khal." Mago said, unsheathing his_ arakh_ as he slid from his stallion. "Let me take her like one, and show her the mercy I gave the Lamb Woman."

Khal Jhaqo was not so incautious as his blood rider, he did not rule a _khalasaar_ through blood and cruelty alone. This _khaleesi_ may have fallen far from her rightful place at _Vaes Dothrak_, but he had heard rumors of her conquests, and the fierce looking dragon curled behind her was enough to give any man pause.

"Wait, blood of my blood," Khal Jhaqo held up a hand, "let us hear her words." He spoke loudly, knowing Daenerys could hear and understand him.

She straightened in response. Hearing Mago speak so casually of the cruelty he inflicted upon Eroeh served to strengthen the vows she swore so long ago.

"I have one word for you, Khal Jhaqo, who took so many from my _khalasaar_, and the blood of your blood, who stole from me those that I would have saved-"

"She was nothing!" Mago spat. "I honored her."

Daenerys narrowed her eyes. Mago had angered the dragon, and all thoughts of patience flew from Daenerys. The Targaryen words rang in her mind: Blood and Fire.

"I have one word for you." She told them. _"Dracarys._" Dany spoke the command softly, almost casually, as she waited for a response. She watched them intently.

Jhaqo and his blood riders looked to her, confused. They were unfamiliar with High Valyrian, since she had hatched her dragons after they fled her _khalasaar_.

"What is this word?" She heard Khal Jhaqo ask, as the huge black bulk of Drogon shifted beside her. The dragon coiled as he took a breath, the grass crackling underfoot as hundreds of pounds of flesh prepared itself. Dany gave them a thin smile as she watched the expressions of the Dothraki changed from arrogance to naked fear. They started to wheel their mounts around as they realized what was coming, but by then it was far too late. Drogon had opened his mouth and was prepared to send the Dothraki to ride across the eternal night sky, much sooner than they had ever expected.

"_Dracarys_ is of my mother tongue, Khal Jhaqo. It is my last word, and the last word you will ever know." Dany told them, and the very air around her burned.

Suddenly men and horses were screaming. Dothraki mounts reared back and threw their riders, both man and beast aflame . The worst of the blast had been directed at Mago, since he had been standing closest to her. Only a pile of charred ash lay where he had stood. Daenerys strode through the dead and dying, walking closer to where Khal Jhaqo had fallen. She stepped barefoot across corpse and ember and burning grass, feeling nothing. She would establish her rightful role as_ khaleesi_ the Dothraki way, through conquest.

Jhaqo did not die quickly, instead reaching up from the tall grasses to grasp at her leg as she approached. "Daenerys." He beckoned to her, his voice raspy. "My Queen."

Dany looked again, and it was not the rival Jhaqo standing under her feet, but Daario. The once flamboyant sellsword's flesh was crisped and blackened. It sloughed off his body as he moved, leaving arms and face and hands cleaved straight to the bone. His dancing blue eyes were gone now, all that remained were melted pools of candle wax running down his face.

He struggled as he tried to raise his arakh to her in one last salute. The golden wanton had turned liquid in the heat, and the molten metal dribbled out through his fingers. "A thousand woman," Daario said, "but only one dragon." He gave a pained gasp through lipless teeth. "I could have loved you." He professed, and his death rattle followed soon after, whistled out through the chink in his gold tooth.

"_**KHALEESI**_." A hand shook her roughly, freeing her from the carnage. "You are safe, it is only a dream."

Daenerys sat up quickly, her heart racing. "Missandei?" She asked, confused, "Where am I?"

"We are marching towards Pentos, your grace." The scribe reminded her. "The Windblown and the Unsullied and the khalasaar you returned with from the Dothraki Sea."

"And Daario?" She asked anxiously.

"Dead, after the trap set by the Yunkai." The Naathi girl was starting to sound worried. "Are you feeling well, your grace?" This was not the first time she had needed to remind her queen when and where she was.

"Yes, go back to sleep. I am fine, it was only a dream." Dany remembered the assault on the Yunkish seige lines now, remembered how the wind had felt as it whistled through the short hair coating her scalp as she rode Drogon. She remembered how powerful she had felt as she urged him on, speeding downwards in a dizzying plummet towards the advancing army. The rush of heat and excitement she felt as he breathed fire onto the front lines.

It was not until it was too late that she realized the infantry was made up of slaves and hostages that had been tied into formation, chained together hand to hand and foot to foot. The knowledge that she had killed Daario herself had been bitter, but the vengeance she wrought upon the slave lords of Yunkai had been paid back in tenfold. Not a man survived who had once laid siege to her city.

A large black dragon flying purposefully at the head of an unknown _khalasaar_ could only mean one thing. Ser Barristan had acted quickly, opening the gates to Mereen and unleashing the Unsullied. The eunuchs made short work of the starved and plague ridden soldiers of Yunkai. When they found themselves surrounded by the unnaturally stalwart Unsullied and twenty thousand Dothraki screamers, the slave soldiers lost heart almost immediately.

Many turned on their masters, hoping to gain forgiveness and freedom from the Breaker of Chains. More tried to run, but were chained together or trod upon by their brothers in arms. Those that remained to fight were swept to dust when the Windblown joined the fray and cleared out anyone wearing a Yunkish badge. They used such thorough and cold blooded efficiency that it would have shocked Daenerys, had her heart had not already become so hardened during the battle.

Later Selmy had told her the cost of binding the Windblown to their cause. Pentos was where her dear friend Illyrio lived, and Illyrio had given her many things. She had been conflicted until she remembered Quaithe's words to her.

_Remember who you are, Daenerys, the dragons know, do you?_

Blood and fire were her words and now they must be how she lived.

Dany had dreamt of a peaceful rule in Mereen, a city full of prosperous freed men learning to thrive. But that dream was lost to her now. She was the blood of the dragon, and dragons do not sow.

The night sky was fading, and light began to fill the desert sky._ A new day dawns to kill the old, just as a new queen must rise._ Daenerys wrapped herself in a sheet from her bed linens and rose to greet the dawn. The small framed Naathi girl padded after her with soft footfalls.

"How many days left before we reach Volantis?" She asked Missandei.

"Four,_ khaleesi_, so long as we maintain pace."

"Four days." Daenerys repeated, "Four days until the Free Cities fear my name." She told the scribe. "My brother had waited so long for this day to come, it feels strange to meet it by myself."

"He would have been proud of you, your grace." The girl supplied. "Everyone is."

This got a smile from Daenerys, "Everyone is not my brother. Viserys would have been mad with jealousy and wroth with everyone he spoke to."

Missandei wrinkled her nose at this. "That does not sound very kinglike to me, your grace."

"He never was." Daenerys sighed. "It was the gods' cruel joke on him, to give him the birthright to rule but not the skills nor power to attain it."

"But he is not you, your grace, he is not the Breaker of Chains, nor the Mother of Dragons. He did not conquer the Great Grass Sea to become _khaleesi_ or seat the throne of the oldest cities of Essos. Only you have done these things."

"Yes, only I have done these things." Dany agreed. "Though once, a long time ago, I was just a girl. A girl who lived in Pentos, in a house with a red door and a lemon tree in the courtyard. This girl did not wish for iron chairs or far off lands, only to be left in peace to grow up and become a good woman."

"But you have grown up to become a great woman, your grace."

"I have," she agreed, "but now this great woman must go back and destroy that young girl's dreams for good, and mayhaps slay the first man to show her kindness."

"A hard decision, your grace," The scribe admitted. "I do not envy you."

"No one should," Daenerys sighed. "I do not know why anyone seeks to play this game. I would set this burden down if I could."

"What game is this, your grace?"

_I must not look back. If I look back, I am lost._

"The only game, Missandei." Daenerys told her. "It is called the game of thrones."


	4. Ch 3 - Victarion

**When the Sun Rises in the East**

**_A/N: _**_I'll try very hard not to drop this and disappoint everyone. I couldn't resist the game line though, it felt too good to write XD.__  
_

**Chapter 3: Victarion**

Men dressed in strange clothing stood guard along the gangways of the Mereenese docks. They bore masks upon their faces carved in the likeness of insects and animals. Victarion collapsed the bronze tube of the Myrish eye he had been staring through. Two score Ironmen commanded the _Shrike_, recently repainted back to _Dove_ for the purpose of this ruse. Moqorro and the dusky woman stood behind Victarion at the prow. They were key in his next act and he wanted to keep them close. He had placed Ralf the Limper in command of his fleet while Victarion himself would land the cog in the Mereenese port. The lack of any banners bearing the Ghiscari Harpy of Slaver's Bay gave him hope. Victarion's silver queen may very well have been waiting for him, all he need do was dock his ship and go to her.

The iron born crew worked quickly. They were on edge in this foreign and fabled city, much more used to raiding than asking permission to dock. The cog bobbed lightly against the dock as they pulled into the birth and secured the ship's tie lines. Six of the animal guards approached the ship, hailing them in a tongue Victarion did not recognize.

He turned to his red priest. "What did they say?"

"They say you are very bold," Moqorro told him, "and ask what business you have in the city of Mereen."

"Tell them I have come to pay homage to their silver queen." He raised the horn high above his head, letting the sun glint off its dark surface and cryptic runes. "Tell them I have found a gift for her and her dragons."

Moqorro stepped towards the railing and shouted down to the Mereenese defenders, in a voice that sounded like he was gargling rocks. The man wearing a jackal mask, whom Victarion presumed to be the leader, held conference with the other five. There appeared to be a fierce discussion, ending with one man gesticulating and growling angrily. In the end the jackal mask won out, and they called an invitation up to the crew of _Dove_.

"He says that the silver queen is marching for conquest."

"She isn't even here?" Victarion was incredulous. "Why are we wasting time bandying words with these fools then?"

Moqorro held up a hand, indicating patience. "She is not here," he told Victarion, "but her noble servant Skahaz mo Kandaq rules in her stead."

"Then I shall slay her husband in single combat." Greyjoy growled, reaching for the axe strapped across his back.

"Calm yourself." The priest reminded him. "Hizdahr is the husband, Skahaz the servant, he holds her husband hostage against the old and noble houses of Mereen. He is the one we will speak with, and, if we are successful, he is the one who will lead us to the dragons."

"The mother leaves without her children." Victarion mused. "Do not worry, my dragons, your father has come for you." He gave orders to his men to guard the ship at all costs, and then he, his dusky woman and his priest walked down the gangway and followed the men back to the palace where Skahaz was holding court.

As they travelled, Victarion learned what had happened through the translated words of Moqorro. The men explained that they were known as the Brazen Beasts, and told him of the troubles they were having maintaining order with the dragons roaming through the city. Mostly they kept to themselves within their lairs, but every so often they would emerge to hunt. The mere sight of a soaring shadow falling over a busy marketplace would cause riots to break out as everyone tried to be the first to find cover.

Finally they came upon the gates leading to the palace courtyard. Victarion looked up and saw the grisly remains of what had once been children. The crows had picked the bodies almost clean and maggots dripped from what little flesh remained. "What is the meaning of this?" He asked the Brazen Beasts.

The jackal mask told Moqorro that it had been a practice of Daenerys herself to hold children from each of the noble families hostage to ensure the continued good behavior of each of the great houses. With the great queen's soft heart, however, none of the children came to harm.

All that had changed when she returned from the Dothraki sea. She had left Skahaz the Shavepate in command of Mereen and given him leave to rule as he saw fit. The Sons of the Harpy and the deaths of Unsullied and freed men had ended almost immediately when he took the lives of two children. No more had been necessary.

The entered the plaza leading into the palace's main audience chamber, where Skahaz was hearing this day's petitioners. He had just dismissed a last handful of people who claimed that the largest dragon, the fierce black one known as Drogon, had eaten the majority of their flocks. Skahaz dismissed them all for robbers, since it was well known that the dragon followed Daenerys' army, possibly in hopes of eating men and their cavalry chargers whole, a meal much more satisfying than lamb.

"Noble Skahaz!" The jackal mask called out, in a Ghiscari growl. "This man comes from Westeros and claims to bear a gift for our queen."

"Oh?" The Shavepate asked. "And what gift is this?"

"Introduce me." Victarion urged of his red priest, feeling lost in this exchange.

"Great and noble Skahaz, seneschal of Daenerys Targaryen, Mother of Dragons and Queen of the Andals. I bring to you a man who has travelled half the world, who has sailed past Valyria and the Smoking Sea to bring to you a lost treasure from the ruined city. This man is Lord Victarion Greyjoy, a great man amongst the Ironborn, and the wielder of the Dragonbinder." When he finished his speech, he gave a flourish, taking full advantage of the thick black robes that Victarion had provided him with. Sensing his cue, Victarion set his face in a fierce and determined mask and raised the horn once more, letting the instrument speak for itself.

A hush fell over those left in the court. "Is this true?" Skahaz asked the priest, "you propose to tame the monsters?" He leaned forward upon the ebony bench Daenerys had left.

"Take us to the dragons," Moqorro offered, "and we shall show you."

Skahaz took a moment to don his travelling garb, and dispatched the jackal captain to find him a score of Brazen Beasts to escort him and their guests to the great pyramid. They travelled slowly through the city, which looked mostly deserted, though it was midday and the air was cool. _I shall give them back their city, _Victarion told himself, _and they shall love me for it._

The group turned down a broad alleyway and the ruin of the great pyramid came into view. Victarion's mouth went dry, a hole five times taller than any many had been burned into the ancient bricks of the pyramid. The stone had melted and run, leaving boulders the size of an an aurochs warped and twisted into grotesque shapes. Nothing burned hotter than dragonfire, it was the substance that forged Valyrian steel, that cast the Iron Throne and burned the towers of Harrenhal. Nothing was more powerful, and soon it would be his, if he had the strength to take it.

"This dragon is known as Rhaegal," Skahaz explained, "call him by name and take your life into your hands. If you refuse, a few hours with my Brazen Beasts will make you wish you had called him instead of lying to me." The Shavepate and his guards kept their distance, waiting for Victarion and his party to approach the dragon's lair.

"And you are certain that this will work?" He asked the priest, his voice a fierce whisper, though he spoke the Common tongue.

"The Lord of Light reveals the truth," Moqorro told him, "it is his mortal servants who err."

"Do not wrong me, wizard, if I fail, your life is forfeit with mine own."

The red priest shrugged, unconcerned. "If the Lord of Light wills it, I shall obey. Do as I have told you, and you shall revel in the glory I have seen in the fires."

Victarion girded himself and took a breath. "Rhaegal!" He shouted into the mouth of the cave, hearing his voice echo off the rocks. His blood ran cold as he heard something massive shift within the darkness. He handed the horn to the dusky woman, who stood petrified at his side. "Blow it." He ordered.

She answered with a shake of her head. Victarion had no time for this; the shadows were shifting, giving way to a wall of shining green scales.

"Blow the horn, or you die." He threatened, pulling her to him. He yanked the knife from his belt and held it against her neck, drawing a thin line of blood across it in his haste.

The dragon's head emerged from the mouth of the cave. His eyes were hypnotic, luminous bronze orbs that shone as brightly as the sun.

"Blow." He growled, and she did, be it from shock of seeing the dragon or his knife at her throat.

It started as a small gasp, but once she breathed life into the horn, it tapped into her own and drew forth all the air from her lungs, creating an ominous wailing sound that ripped through the ears and minds of everyone present. The horn and her skin began to glow, growing bright and glossy, and for a moment, it looked as though both horn and woman were carved from dragonglass.

"Now, do it now!" The priest yelled, and Victarion ripped his blade across the woman's neck, sending a deluge of blood cascading down his arms and chest.

"Rhaegal!" Victarion shouted, holding the woman's convulsing body to him as her blood drenched him, it boiled and sizzled where it coated his left hand and forearm. "By blood and fire I called you and by blood and fire I bind you!" He took his burned hand and wrenched the Dragonbinder from her charred lips. His skin split and smoked where he touched the horn and the Dragonbinder grew fiery hot. On the horn's surface, the Valyrian runes glowed with a light that was all their own. He shoved the woman from him and watched her fall to the ground, having no more need of her pitiful corpse. She shivered once and then went still, smoke rising from both her mouth and the huge rent slashed across her throat.

Victarion dropped the knife to the warped stones as went forth to claim his prize. "Rhaegal," he crooned, "mighty Rhaegal. Your mother hatched you, but your father has come to claim you." He stretched out his free hand, the hand he had used to slay his dusky woman, to show his dragon that he meant no harm. The green and bronze scaled beast stepped out of the cave, his neck and tail and body stretching and uncoiling in a fluid motion that drew the eye. Rhaegal was much larger than Victarion had ever imagined. Left alone in his lair for months, the dragon had grown as large as the Iron Fleet's reaving ships.

"Come to me, Rhaegal, come to me and we shall make the world tremble." Victarion promised. A crack of noise split the air, and suddenly the dragon's wings had unfurled, larger than the sails on the cog they had brought. Behind him, Skahaz and the Brazen Beasts cowered in fear, only Moqorro and Victarion appeared uncowed by the majestic size and ferocity of the mythic creature.

"You and I, Rhaegal, we will take Daenerys home." The dragon cocked his head at him, as if considering the offer.

Suddenly Rhaegal's mouth split open, revealing a hundred razor sharp and blackened teeth. Victarion's view went so deep that he could see the furnace fire kept in the belly of the dragon.

For a moment he almost felt fear, but then he remembered who he was. Victarion Greyjoy carried two gods with him, the Drowned God and red R'hllor. _Nothing can stand before two gods, neither man nor beast._

He raised his voice and the Dragonbinder, issuing one last command before embracing his destiny. "Fly me, Rhaegal."

Quick as a snake, the dragon's head shot forward and the wings snapped shut.

Skahaz and his Brazen Beasts threw up their hands to cover their faces. After that farce with the Prince of Dorne, Skahaz was certain that he was about to witness another brave fool become a meal. Victarion's laughter split the air, and when they looked up, the scene before them was beyond belief.

Rhaegal's head lay on the ground, with Victarion's hand resting lightly upon the scaled crest of one brow. A wing was cocked towards the kraken lord. The dragon looked for all the world like a stallion waiting to be mounted.

_The most beautiful woman in the world, _Victarion thought to himself, laughing madly as he lightly petted his beast, _and I shall ride a dragon by her side._


	5. Ch 4 - Bran

**When the Sun Rises in the East**

_**A/N:**__ Sorry for the delay, been hiking a lot on the weekends. Also, this chapter was finished around noon today PST, but ffic was acting wonky so I didn't get to upload it until now. Have a good weekend, everyone._

**Chapter 4: Bran**

"Jon!"

Bran's eyes flew open into total darkness. His face was wet and his throat hurt immensely. Slowly his sight began to adjust to the intense blackness, outlines revealing themselves in the gloom. Seated next to him, tied eternally to his weirwood throne, was the Three-Eyed Crow.

"They killed him." Bran gasped. "What use has all our planning been if Jon is only a pile of ash?"

"Calm yourself, my young prince," the greenseer instructed. His voice was low and measured, soft as the whisper of fallen leaves, yet insistent as a stream wearing down rock. "What you see is not always certain, look again and find your answer."

Bran took a deep breath and settled back into his earthen cradle. It had only been a few turns of the moon, and already small roots were curling up through the soil and molding to his body. Bran felt like he belonged in that seat, which made him at turns exhilarated and terrified. He wanted to be a greenseer, to see with a thousand eyes and one. He wished to surrender his useless legs and fly with the ravens, to soar high above Westeros and see things no other human could.

But if he did that, if Bran succumbed to the wishes of the Children and his mentor, what would be left at the end? Would he still be human? Would he be happy living beyond his normal span as part of a weirwood? These were questions he couldn't answer, and until he could, his cozy, loam lined throne would instill more terror than comfort.

That thought was for later. Now was the time for Bran to focus and extend his senses. There were many ravens he could inhabit, but none felt quite like this one. He cast his Sight south, but only slightly, just enough to find a particularly scavenger hovering around a monolith forged of ice. The bonfire he had seen earlier had burnt down to embers, but something seemed wrong. There was no pile of ash atop the bier, and a trail of muddy footprints came forth from the coals. It was as if something very hot had walked out of the fire.

The men had dispersed from the pyre and only a few remained, whispering amongst themselves. Bran swooped down lower, catching a few errant words.

"-it's wrong, bloody unnatural if you ask me."

"Fool's errand, it was, letting him out. He'll bring them right to us."

"'Let him'? I didn't see you trying to stop the great flaming bastard. Besides, he's only going to the godswood."

"S'no godswood Snow's after, it's them White Walkers he wants."

_The godswood._ Bran needed to hurry, if the found the grove in time he might be able to speak to Jon, despite what the Crow had told him.

He sifted through a hundred different eyes, both beast and tree, before he found the pair he wanted. These weirwoods were very old, their memories stretching back all the way to the Age of Heroes. Bran was having trouble finding the present moment. He saw dozens of Northerners, each bearing some Stark feature, be it eyes or hair or jaw, but none matched who he was looking for. Jon, he told himself, I want Jon. The flashes of memory finally stopped, and Bran was left staring at an empty clearing. _This is useless_, Bran prepared himself to leave the vision, _I'll never be a good seer._

"This is useless, Lord Snow." A woman's voice rang out, echoing Bran's sentiment. Her speech was warm and melodic, flavored with inflections from the far East. "There are no gods here, only minions of the Other."

Footsteps crunched through the newly fallen snow, and Bran got a glimpse of his half brother. His skin was mostly charred, save his sword arm, which looked untouched by the fire. Jon staggered barefoot across the freezing earth, save for a sword slung across his back, he was naked as his nameday.

"One moment, that is all I am asking for before I surrender my future to this red god of yours." Jon growled, looking at the tree's face. "Be silent for just one moment."

Bran could see that the fire had burnt his hair down to the roots, Jon's eyes were different as well. He had been the spitting image of a Stark, right down to the gray eyes that matched their father's. As Jon looked into the face of the weirwood, Bran could see those familiar eyes were gone, and in their place was something new. The sight of that smokey violet stare sent chills down his spine. He was in the presence of something old, something with great power.

Jon drew the sword from its smoking wooden scabbard and placed it before the tree, tip down, before forcing the blade deep into the snow. He kept pushing, melting through hard packed ice and hoarfrost. He didn't stop until the blade pierced frozen earth. The heat of the sword was so intense that Bran could feel it in the roots of his tree. Jon released the blade, leaving it to stand sentinel before him. Only then, with what looked to be extreme effort, did he kneel before the tree that was Bran.

"Someone saved me." Jon told the tree. "This woman says her god brought me back because I'm some kind of savior, some promised prince." He looked as though he was struggling with something. "When I was in the fire, I saw things. I saw myself in armor made of black ice, holding a flaming sword, as I fought off the Others. It was a dream I had once before, but then there was a new vision as well. I saw some woman, with white hair and piercing eyes, flying North with her dragons." Jon looked at the sword before him, glowing softly with a ruddy heat. "I have the sword, but I don't know how to find the rest of it. Help me." Jon pleaded with the tree. "Guide me, where do I go from here? Do I go south and save Arya from that bastard? To Mother Mole and Eastwatch? How to I stop them?" He looked deep into the face of the weirwood and Bran felt as though he were talking right to him.

"Come north." Bran blurted, forgetting that those in the weirwood groves could hear only the whisperings of the red leaves.

Jon jerked his head with a start, turning an ear as he listened.

"You see, Jon Snow." The woman behind him proclaimed. "Your gods only answer you with cold silence."

"Be silent!" Jon barked at her, before whispering. "_You know nothing_." With this, Jon seemed more centered, and he took a deep breath before his request. "Tell me again, I'm listening."

Could it be true? Could Jon actually understand the language of the weirwoods? Bran had to make it short, short enough that he could get his message across.

"Nightfort. There's a door in Nightfort, come north, we can help."

Jon closed his eyes, and Bran began to panic, maybe he hadn't heard correctly. He found himself shouting through the tree, and the winds picked up around them. "There's a door!" He screamed. "A door in the Nightfort!"

Jon's eyes opened, he was done listening. He rose from the ground and stepped back from the tree before retrieving Longclaw. He slung it across his back and tried to sheath it in the smoking wood. Half the scabbard fell to the ground in a pile of ash when the sword seated itself, but the wood held.

"We're leaving." Jon told her.

"Did your trees answer?" She asked him, mockingly.

"They did, though I've yet to hear from this god of yours." He told her. "We go to Nightfort."


	6. Ch 5 - Jon

**When the Sun Rises in the East**

**_A/N: _**_So yeah...fell off my posting schedule, hard, hopefully this will kick start my writing habits..._

**Chapter 5: Jon**

Jon flipped through the ancient and decaying pages of yet another tome that had been brought up from Sam's library. Though he no longer thought of himself as Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, everyone else was still treating him the same, most especially Satin. The boy had come to him, attentive as ever, to ask Jon what he needed. The only orders Jon gave were to find any books Sam had left strewn about regarding the history of the Watch or Nightfort in general. The curly haired youth had returned with a stack of volumes so high that Jon scarce wondered how he had found his way back, since they reached past his eyes. After depositing his collection on a low table near Jon, the steward dismissed himself immediately. Jon had little doubt of where he went.

"Probably off to get more salve." He grumbled to himself.

"The boy cares for you." A low, melodic voice answered. "Is that such hardship?"

"No," Jon had given up fighting with her, "I suppose not."

The red woman had been spending more and more time in his presence lately, and he could not say that he minded. After the stabbing, Ghost had gone completely wild. It was only the thick, iron banded wood of Donal Noye's chambers that had kept him from breaking loose and ripping out the throats of every man of the Watch. Even that barricade had almost failed as Jon had returned to his quarters, seeing flashes of slavering teeth and feral red eyes through splintered wood. A few moments longer and the wolf would have been out amongst his Brothers like a fox among hens.

Before retiring to his bed and both Satin and Melisandre's ministrations, Jon had asked for one of the builders to reinforce the door. At first the man was reluctant, but fulfilling the wish of his deceased and recently risen Lord Commander by putting the direwolf behind another few inches of hardwood seemed to be a better option than having the deadly creature out and prowling around Castle Black while he slept.

Ghost had proven to be an excellent sentry, keeping out all enemies, real or imagined, with the strange exceptions of Satin and Melisandre. Jon was glad for it. The men who weren't convinced that he was a risen Other seemed to think that he was now some sort of invincible juggernaut, able to flaunt even death itself. The truth of the matter was that the pyre _had_ burned him, all of him, save his sword arm, which was miraculously free of damage, and the burned skin pained him horribly. Satin had brought him dreamwine and potions from Clydas, who was functioning as their healer in Maester Aemon's absence. Jon had shunned them all, save for a skin of sour Dornish red. He used the foul drink to dull the pain in place of the stupefying effects brought on by dreamwine and milk of the poppy. He was running out of time, and he needed to learn everything there was to know about the Nightfort.

Jon let out a sigh as he slammed the crumbling cover to the book he had been reading shut. _Lord Commanders and their Histories_. It was a most thrilling volume, full of dry, detailed accounts of each Commander, what they spent on food, arms and clothing, and how many men they had sworn into the Watch. Very few records were kept about the personal lives of the Commanders before they joined the Brotherhood. Many men that were listed even lacked family names and house affiliations.

_What better way to hide their crimes or bastardy_, Jon thought.

He didn't know why he was looking at the histories. The heinous crimes of Night's King, along with his true name, had been stricken from all the Watch's written records. He just knew that he needed to find out everything there was to know about the castle of Nighfort before he left, because when he finally started his journey, there would be no turning back. Once he left the confines of his room at Castle Black, he would be dubbed at best a deserter, and at worst a traitor, plotting the downfall of mankind and selling secrets to the Others. There would be no library while he was on the run, no breadcrumbs and marked chapters from Sam or Maester Aemon to guide him, just his wits and Longclaw, which was currently propped in a corner of the room that was all bare stone. The sword had burned through three different scabbards since the transformation, and Jon had given up hope about doing anything except letting it sit while he was convalescing.

A rustling by the hearth broke Jon from his musings as he found himself looking up into identical pairs of watchful red eyes. Ever since his revival, the woman had stuck by him close as a burr on a wool jerkin. He had been suspicious at first, but her counsel was sound, so long as they weren't discussing other godly entities besides her precious R'hllor, and he was beginning to rely on her uncanny insight into the goings on around the castle. She also seemed to know much and more about what was happening regarding the current occupants of the Nightfort.

Queen Selyse and her veritable army of Queen's men had left the night of the pyre, and already the red priestess was reporting of disturbing visions given to her by the sacred flames. Jon had instructed Satin to keep a brazier lit in his room at all times. He was worried that the damage from the fire might have weakened him and made him susceptible to chill. Once the fire was lit, however, the chill seemed not to matter. Day after day, the soft youth brought Jon healing salves and dutifully coated him head to toe. Each day, Jon had hoped that his skin had recovered enough to feel hot or cold, but he was disappointed each time. He did not feel it now any more than he had when he had journeyed to the godswood. He had not felt the chill of the snow through his bare soles or naked body, and the fiery brazier that Satin kept stoked all day and night was as real to him as the painted flames of a mummer's backdrop. He found the knowledge slightly jarring, but no more so than any of the other fantastic revelations he had been experiencing. After the Others, giants, deathbound visions of lady dragon riders and wildlings crossing the Wall to join the Watch, his inability seemed a mere afterthought.

The red woman seemed to enjoy the flames, if Jon did not. She spent many an hour staring into them, looking for her portents of things to come. No longer would she spend time rallying the men of the Watch and the Free Folk to Stannis' lost cause, instead she sequestered herself in Jon's quarters, repeating the advice she'd given him before. Not about daggers in the dark, that prophecy had already come to pass, but about the fool Patchface, who trailed after Queen Selyse's daughter like a lost puppy. Always, the sight of him was accompanied by skulls and blood dripping from the mouth. After the third time, Jon had agreed to extreme caution when dealing with the queen, the princess or her fool, as it seemed to be the only way to get the priestess to stop warning him.

Though he felt foolish for doing so, Jon found himself resorting to the stories he remembered from his childhood. Old Nan had told him unbelievable tales of the sacrifices made by Night's King to his cold, blue eyed love. Those stories had also included such far-fetched characters as Mad Axe and the Rat Cook, with his famous Prince and Bacon Pie.

While some of them regarding the Nightfort had been too fantastic to believe, Jon remembered the reports Sam had given him regarding the gifts from the Children of the Forest to the Watch. Three hundred dragonglass arrowheads every year couldn't have just been for show.

Jon wondered if the tales that used to keep his brother Bran riveted had the same kernel of truth at their center. Many of the stories, particularly Mad Axe, involved mysterious creatures arising from the depths of the castle. This common thread couldn't have come from nowhere. Many builders added secret rooms and escape passages to the huge fortresses they built, and he believed the Nightfort was no exception.

"Now if only I could find it." Jon muttered to himself, grabbing another volume from the stack and wrenching it open. The sudden flurry of motion attracted the other two occupants of the room. Ghost padded over and sat next to the bed, staring up at him expectantly, as if he were waiting for a command. The red woman also rose from her place near the hearth. She did not approach, but instead spoke his fears aloud.

"Why do you hesitate?" She asked Jon. "You chose to trust in faith earlier, why abandon it now?" Melisandre cocked her head, her crimson eyes boring holes through him. "You felt their power out in the grove. When you leave your fate to god, there is no middle ground. Trust or do not, but you cannot waver."

"Then we leave in the morning." Jon decided impulsively. "My injuries be damned."

The woman looked him over critically. "Those are no mortal wounds." She told him. "Lesser men have perished from such flames, yet you survive, have you thought about the reason for this yet, Lord Snow?"

"I'm no lord." He shot back irritably. "The pyre and my sworn brothers made sure of that."

"Do not be so quick to cast off the trappings of power." Melisandre warned him. "Title or no, men believe what they will, as must you. I ask you again, have you thought about the reason for your survival."

Jon cast his eyes down to the worn black bedspread. He had thought about it briefly, in fits and starts, but once ideas started to form, he cast them off as insanity. He could not be an Other, the cleansing power of fire saw to that. Had he been a servant of Winter, he would have burnt up as quickly as that wight in Commander Mormont's chambers. There was something in her questing stare that he misliked. Suspicion grew in Jon, but he continued to play out the farce she seemed to want.

"Something brought me back, be it your god or mine own, but I cannot continue as a Lord Commander of the Night's Watch." Some plans had been brewing in the back of Jon's mind. Most of them included a journey North of the Wall via the Nightfort, if the weirwood was to be trusted. A few he dismissed as folly, a Southern journey would most definitely mark him as a deserter, and the Southron lords would either send him away as a madman or kill him outright after he told them his unbelievable truths. "The places I must travel welcome no Crows, deserter or otherwise."

"You are cleverer than you know, Jon Snow."

Jon looked at her, wondering if he was ready to hear the secrets she kept swirling behind those unsettling eyes. What was the riddle wrapped within his resurrection? He was certain she knew.

Jon opened his mouth to ask, but was interrupted by the slam of his newly reinforced door.

"M'lord!" Satin called cheerfully, "I've returned with more salve."

"Pack it." Jon ordered, gruffly, stopping the boy in his tracks. "Along with my weapons and all of my warm travelling clothes."

"And your sword?" Satin paused in his preparations, staring at the glowing steel propped neatly in the corner.

"Never mind the sword." Jon assured him, waving his steward away from the wall. "I'll take care of it."

"Ah, anything else?" Satin asked, carefully setting his tin of salve on a nearby table.

"Food, from the kitchens," Jon requested, "enough for a month. Load all this onto a couple of garrons from the stables, hearty ones."

"At once, m'lord." He scratched his mop of curls, suddenly thoughtful. "If someone should ask, what is all this for, m'lord?"

"The Lady Melisandre has given me a change of heart." Jon smiled widely, "Tell them I wish to join the Queen's men at the Nightfort to swear my allegiance to R'hllor, the one true god."

Satin hurried to obey, and Melisandre looked to Jon, startled.

He stared back steadily, holding her gaze. _Now both of us have secrets._


	7. Ch 6 - Tyrion

**When the Sun Rises in the East**

**_A/N: _**_So yeah...I warned you about the sporadic bit, truly sorry. I do love reviews, and I take them to heart, hence this Tyrion chapter. Enjoy!_

**Chapter 6: Tyrion**

The wagon jumped, sending the sharpened quill tip into his thumb and setting Tyrion to cursing. The roads had changed from muddied ruts to paved cobbles once they had passed Bhorash, but long stretches were grossly unkempt. Desperate villagers from remote enclaves had needed to shore up and reinforce their collapsing homesteads, and many used loose cobblestones to do so.

The result was an unpredictable ride, and a sore and bloodied thumb for Tyrion. He wasn't sure why he continued adding sums and wages for Inkpots and the Second Sons, since he planned to change sides the moment he laid eyes on the fabled Targaryen queen. The reason he finally settled on was the same that caused him to excel as Master of the Sewers of Casterly Rock and as Hand of the King, he was good at it and it needed to be done.

The fact that the confusing jumble of numbers gave Penny a headache and left him blessedly free of her company was simply an added bonus. Ever since he had slapped her at the armaments wagon she had been at turns sullen and ingratiating, Tyrion had trouble deciding which aspect he despised the most. At least the sullen Penny was a quiet one, the ingratiating one had called upon that awkward, fatalistic kiss aboard the _Stinky Steward_ and kept at him in hopes of a repeat performance. The thought of it repulsed him to no end. Not because she was a dwarf, but because he saw her as a child, a child with no skills or independence. Tyrion needed a partner with both, and perhaps even a larger skillset than he himself had.

Seven save him, he actually missed Bronn. If only the sellsword had been a little more interested in gold and adventure than a homestead with titles and a lackwit of a wife, Tyrion could have altogether avoided this Eastern disaster that now made up his daily life. He sighed heavily as the wagon train ground to a halt, such was the price of trusting the combat skills of a venomous Martell noble over that of a tried and true killing machine.

Tyrion shut his book of sums and tucked it away on the floor of the wagon, next went his carefully stoppered ink bottle and his flamboyant quill. When it came to writing implements, Inkpots seemed impervious to sensible style, and the least garish quill Tyrion had found so far had been his current choice of a peacock feather. He slid forward along the bed of the wagon and braced himself for the fall that was quite a bit more than half his height. With a grunt, Tyrion launched himself from the wagon to the hard packed cobbles below, bending his knees to absorb the shock and praying to the Seven that he didn't roll an ankle this time, twice had been bad enough.

A flurry of activity shot through the idle band of sellswords, and Tyrion made his way to what appeared to be the center of it. He shoved his way through legs and asses until he found himself at the forefront, something he found taller people didn't mind, since blocking their view was something he could only aspire to in his dreams. An advance scout had come back in a hurry, so much so that his horse was heavily lathered. Breathless and panting, the rider looked almost as exhausted as the animal. "I've found them." He wheezed to the crowd. "Someone get Ben," the scout pleaded, "I've found her."

_Her_. Tyrion raised an eyebrow at this. The Second Sons had been following the stale trail of the Silver Queen's army for weeks now, but this was the first time they had actually caught sight of anything more than old cook fires, muddy footprints and Dothraki horseshit. Why Plumm had continued his contract with the defeated forces of the Yunkish Masters was beyond Tyrion, who, if he had captained this particular band of sellswords, would have offered fealty to the victorious queen in a heartbeat.

It was not as though they had even fought in the one sided melee that left every Yunkish warrior or slave infantryman dead. Ben had been far too occupied wringing every last golden dragon out of Casterly Rock with Tyrion's signature to actually fight in the battle he had been contracted for. Tyrion was hardly sure that there were even any slavers left alive to pay off Yunkai's contract with the Second Sons, much less persuade them from changing sides. He needed to get Ben alone with a _cyvasse_ table, and soon, otherwise his newly adopted brothers would become so much ash and dragonshit once they met up with that black monstrosity Daenerys was partial to.

"I'll do it." Tyrion piped up, turning around and shoving once more through a sea of infrequently washed humanity, this time more codpiece than ass, but smelling just as pungent. The sellswords' stares followed him all the way to the flap of Ben's tent. He strode past the guards, insisting that he was on an extremely urgent errand, and entered without knocking, as was his specialty. To his complete unsurprise, Ben was seated on a chair fondling a half dressed camp follower, her milky breasts spilling out between his ring encrusted fingers.

"Oh good." Tyrion interrupted, pulling up a chair and a checkered table, "You're already seated." He began laying out the pieces for the _cyvasse_ game. "The girl can stay," Tyrion advised Ben, "perhaps she'll even improve your game."

"What is the meaning of this?" The sellsword captain responded angrily, his face red and his pants ready to burst at the seams.

"Important news from an outrider," Tyrion responded casually, "but since you seem to be in no rush I thought we'd play a little _cyvasse_ first." His first move was to destroy Ben's heavy horse with his dragon, the move was incredibly bold, and risky to a fault, but so was the young Targaryen queen.

Ben sighed in annoyance, but countered Tyrion's infantry with his own, getting ready to take his elephants and archers out to deal with the dragon, a common strategy amongst novice players.

"They've found your silver queen." Tyrion reported, moving his heavy horse in to support his beleaguered infantry.

"A scout finally finds her, and you'd rather play_ cyvasse_ than tell me about it?" Ben was angry, fuming, so mad that he stood up, dumping the girl to the ground and knocking the _cyvasse_ table so that all the pieces toppled from their places. His hand was at his sword in an instant, "You're lucky you're worth so much, Lannister imp, or I'd have your skull off in a heartbeat." His blood was raging and he was impulsive, which was exactly how Tyrion wanted him.

"Why fight her?" Tyrion asked. "There's no more Yunkish slavers to pay off the contract, at least not anywhere outside of Yunkai, and you face certain death for the Second Sons if they raise arms against a dragon, so why?"

There was one _cyvasse_ piece left upright on the table, it was Ben's dragon, Tyrion caught him looking at it from the corner of his eye. "You think you can run this company?" Ben challenged him. "You think anyone will follow a twisted little Lannister shit like you? Well you're wrong," Ben stared down at Tyrion, a crazed look in his eyes, "now get out of here before I lose my temper and we both miss out on that Lannister gold you love so well."

Tyrion ran as fast as his short legs could carry him, he ran out of the tent and into the newly fallen evening. He could hear the roar of Brown Ben Plumm's voice through the thin walls of his tent, so loud it felt as though he were right behind him. "If he comes back again, kill him," he heard Ben order the guards, "I don't care how much he's worth."

Tyrion mind raced as he ran, feeling his legs cramp and his breath come ragged as he headed back to his wagon of sums. He needed a plan, and he needed one fast. He didn't know how long it would be before Ben figured out that Tyrion knew exactly what he wanted, why he continued to pursue Daenerys when he had no reason to. He didn't want to destroy her or her army, he wanted her dragon, and he was going to risk absolutely everything to get it. Tyrion's eyes watered and he gasped as a particularly painful stitch grew in his side, he blinked away the moisture and crashed directly into what felt like a very large, armor clad tree. Tyrion fell with a crash, blinking in the darkness as he gathered his bearings, "What in the Seven Hells was that?" he wondered aloud.

"That was me." A rough and familiar voice responded.

"Jorah Mormont?" Tyrion asked, standing up in the darkness and brushing himself off.

"Do you know of any other Mormont in exile selling his sword in the east?" The big man countered. His fearsome countenance flickering in and out as Tyrion's eyes adjusted to the darkness.

"I can't see yet, are we alone? I don't have much time." Tyrion explained.

"We're alone as anyone can be when they decide to meet downwind of a newly dug latrine pit," Jorah responded wryly, "so I would say yes."

"Ah, so that smell isn't you and I did not in fact soil myself, that's reassuring." Tyrion joked. "On a more pressing note, how much do you love Daenerys, the silver queen that banished you?"

Jorah bristled. "Say what you mean." He growled, suddenly suspicious.

"I mean, you were willing to ransom me to her to regain her good favor, would you be willing to let me escape so that I could warn her?"

"Warn her?" Jorah laughed, the mocking sound of it deflated Tyrion's hope, "Why do you care anything at all about her, you haven't even met her. This sounds more like a Lannister escape plot than a plea to assist my former sovereign."

Tyrion let out an exasperated breath, sometimes being a descendent of Lann the Clever was not always in your best interests. "Fine, I don't have much time but I'm going to tell you a story. Once upon a time there was a young boy who lived in Casterly Rock. After killing his mother by simply being born, he was scorned by his father and sister, in addition to the entire Lannister court. Thereafter, the boy's only friends were the books he could read."

"I doubt that highly," Jorah said, but allowed Tyrion to continue.

"One day the boy found a book on the history and breeding of dragons, and it caught his imagination like nothing else, every spare moment, each and every dream, and every last make believe playtime fantasy the boy concocted revolved around dragons, and do you know what the saddest day of this boy's life was?"

"What was it?" Jorah asked, yawning, he'd play along, if only to get to the end of this sad and woeful lie the Imp was spinning.

"When Tywin Lannister, Warden of the West, Lord of Casterly Rock and Hand to the King, told him that all the dragons were dead." The memory still stung, Tyrion felt his eyes grow damp and he wiped the back of his hand across them irritably. "That's when my boyhood died, Jorah, that was when I stopped hoping for the impossible. But later, from the far East, arise tales of the lost Targaryen exile princess. She made her entire rule from nothing, hatching the first dragons in more than a hundred and fifty years and becoming head of a Dothraki army when they don't even follow women to begin with!"

"She is a woman like none other." Jorah admitted, with perhaps a grudging hint of a smile and Tyrion could see some glint in the sellsword's eyes that gave him hope. "But what is she to you, Lannister? Your story has told me that you love dragons, and that you admire the queen, but none of this proves your loyalty to her."

"Fine." Tyrion could see that he needed to bring out a larger axe to fell this particular tree. "Would you believe me if I told you the reason we're marching on her army is so that Ben Plumm can steal her dragon?"

"What proof do you have?" Jorah asked.

"Why do you think I was running blindly into the night, for sport? I confronted Ben, since the Yunkish Masters are dead and there's no one left to pay the Second Son's contract, so why continue to fight a losing battle?"

"You do have a point." Jorah conceded.

"But here's the heart of the matter," Tyrion told him, "you should have seen his face when I told him we had spotted Daenerys' army, the man was crazed, he wants either her or her dragons and he'll stop at nothing to get there, not even gold matters to that man anymore, and he's a _sellsword_ for Sevens' sake."

"So why shouldn't I leave you behind and tell her this news myself?" Jorah asked, planning an escape route of his own.

"Would she even see you?" Tyrion asked him, "Much less trust your advice? Besides, how much do you know about dragons, I can assure you that no one, and I mean no one, knows more about dragons than I do, except maybe those ancient shadowbinders east of Asshai...and I'll bet they don't speak Westerosi."

"Fine, but I'm going with you. Do you need to collect your things?" Jorah asked him.

"No," Tyrion replied, "Everything I need is on my person."

"Everything, you're sure?" Jorah asked again, confused, and Tyrion knew he was referring to Penny.

"Everything," Tyrion assured him. "Now let's get some horses."


	8. Ch 7 - Jon

**When the Sun Rises in the East**

_**A/N: **__So I realized that if I ever wanted the North to catch up with the Eastern timeline (which is still six months ahead) I needed to write way more Bran/Jon/Melisandre/etc chapters. Hopefully the 4k+ word count will satisfy the readers who wanted longer chapters, as this somehow ended up being the longest chapter I have ever written, hopefully it kicks off a trend…. Also, Melisandre seems to be growing on me, which I never expected, I may end up 'shipping her and Jon and ending up with a fantastic love square towards the end of this thing. Thanks for all the reviews, I take them to heart, so don't be shy to leave one._

**Chapter 7: Jon**

The fastest way to Nightfort was to haul all the supplies, including the horses, to the top of the Wall and simply walk to the next castle. Jon had thought briefly about riding, but depending on what he found, or didn't find, in the bowels of the stone fortress, the ability to make a quick escape on a fresh horse would be the difference between life and death. Nightfort was only a half-day's journey away on foot, so if he and the red woman started in the morning, they would make it well before the lethal freezing temperatures that came howling in with the coming tides of Winter. It was a good plan, since there were no structures available to shelter them from the fierce wind as they were walking along the top of the Wall.

Satin cinched a final girth strap on one of the garrons and reported that the animals and supplies were ready and waiting. Jon nodded and embraced the Steward, hugging him close in farewell. "Whatever you hear," he whispered to his friend, "don't believe the worst of me until we've spoken, do you promise me?"

"I do." Satin whispered back, feeling the gravity of the situation. He sketched a quick half bow before dismissing himself and disappearing into the winch cage, to be lowered down the Wall and find warmth within Castle Black.

Jon turned to his companion, "And you're absolutely sure you don't need a coat or cloak?" He asked her for what seemed like the hundredth time. The priestess had packed exceedingly light, and Jon wasn't even entirely sure that she needed food or water.

"The Lord of Light provides for those in need." Melisandre told him, the same answer she had given him every other time he had asked that same question.

"Ghost, to me." Jon called to the wolf, who gave the horses a wide berth lest they spook and bolt, possibly to dash off the edge of the Wall or break a foreleg in a hidden pit of salt and Builder's compound. Jon and Melisandre set off in awkward silence, Jon, swinging Longclaw back and forth to keep the blood from pooling in his hands, Satin had packed him numerous sheaths, but he wanted to save them for as long as possible, so for now, he kept the flaming blade in hand. The only sound was the crunching of their footsteps and every now and again an errant bird call that echoed around them in the chill air.

"The songs of birds give me hope that the wights have not taken every last life north of the Wall." He said, because it was the truth, and he didn't know what else he could say to her without beginning a long stream of lies.

"What is your true intent, Lord Snow?" She asked him. "For if you wanted to swear allegiance to the Lord of Light, you do not need Queen Selyse, you need only seek out me."

"I might have been concerned that the tales of my conversion were not believed by those who reside within the Nightfort."

"The beliefs of others do not concern those that truly walk R'hllor's path," she said, looking through him with those unnerving eyes of hers. "Tell me true, Jon Snow, for born amidst smoke and salt, you are the Prince that was Promised, even if you deny it still. I am charged with aiding that Prince, so tell me, and no falsehoods, what lies in the Nightfort?"

"Would you still be charged to help me if I denounced your god and followed my old ones? Because that's whose advice I am following, are you still so ready to aid my cause then?"

The priestess thought for a moment, as she strolled, one hand trailing lightly alongside the garron's reins. "Do you truly denounce my God, Lord Snow, or do you simply prefer your old gods, for I could still aid you in that situation."

Jon knew that something fueled the priestess' power, he could not say what, but it might have been this Red God of hers. Another, darker voice reminded him that her god could be the driving force behind his resurrection, and that he was simply playing the superstitious fool who still clung to his old heathen gods, much like the Watch accused the Wildlings of doing. "I don't denounce your god," Jon admitted, "there are too many strange uncertainties surrounding you, and now me, I guess."

"Then we have reached an agreement, and there will be no more talk about one of us mistrusting the other. And now," she said, her voice becoming strange and mysterious, "what lies in the Nightfort?"

"Myths and monsters." Jon replied, truthfully. "In the North, children are commonly told stories to scare them into being good when their parents are not watching; many of the characters in these stories come from the lost history of Nightfort."

She nodded, "I believe every culture uses these same methods, it is only the stories that differ. So what are these stories?"

"A mad cook who feeds a man his own son, a crazed man who takes an axe and kills everyone in the castle, a strange otherworldly beast that arises from the darkest depths of Nightfort, and finally, a man whose name has been stricken from our history entirely, and is now only known as Night's King." Jon shuddered as he thought about what lay in store for them if any of the stories were true.

"What was his crime?" Melisandre asked.

"The stories differ, but most of them state that he fell in love with a cold, white skinned woman with eyes like blue stars, which we now know fits the description of an Other." He stopped, not certain if he wanted to continue.

"What is the matter?" She asked him, the final story had made the most sense, and she was eager to hear more.

"He sacrificed his living subjects to her." Jon said, finally, his voice barely above a whisper. He looked to her again, hoping that she didn't judge the whole of the North on the actions of one man from more than a hundred years ago.

"And you're afraid that it will happen again?"

"I'm afraid that it _is_ happening again, and that is where all these rumors are stemming from. It's those visions you've been telling me about. That jester, Patchface, always seen with blood dripping from the mouth. Val, the Wildling woman, told me something about greyscale, and I was glad she did not do it in the presence of Queen Selyse or her retainers."

"What did she say?" Melisandre asked, "Did she tell you the girl is unclean, for that is the truth, the disease is incurable without aid from the Lord of Light, it is a pox upon the soul."

"You knew?" Jon was aghast. "You knew and you didn't help her? That's monstrous."

"I could not." It looked as though she was frustrated, and emotion that Jon didn't think the woman was even capable of. "It takes a great amount of faith to cure diseases of the body, even more for those that taint the soul. The girl was not raised within a Red Temple, a mother's anxious zealotry is nothing compared to a child's true and unclouded belief."

"Fine, so Val was right and we're walking into Night's Kingdom all over again, only this time it's run by a little girl and her fool."

Melisandre raised her eyes to the sky, seemingly trying to think. "The taint of the disease alone would not be enough to resurrect your story, Jon, there would have to be something else, and other than that, Night's King is only one of your stories, you said that you had been looking at all of them, why?"

"The message in the Godswood." He told her. "I can't explain it, but I understood the whispers of the leaves, I need to go north, beyond the Wall, and somehow, some way, there will be a path in the depths of the Nightfort, there has to be, or else I've been wrong about everything."

"And if the worst comes to pass, and you are wrong about the passage, what then?"

He looked at her, his vivid violet eyes hard and cold. "Then we fight our way out, slaying as many as we can. There's a reason that you and Ghost and Longclaw are with me and we aren't riding the garrons."

"Ah." A single, exhaled syllable as she grasped the plot. "I do hope your stories are correct, Lord Snow. If not...well...my powers are greatest around daylight and fire, if we should arrive after sunset to a fire loathing host of the Other's minions, we may both be facing the test of our lives. For, after all, the night is dark, and full of terrors."

Jon grunted, wordlessly, and they both doubled their pace.

The sun had started to drop, winking at them through the snowcapped trees, as they came upon the bell to call the Nightfort's winch cage. Jon rang it frantically, knowing their time was limited. After what seemed like an eternity, the pulley started to move and the lift cage made its way up the side of the massive Wall. Jon felt the wind start to pick up around him, howling as a messenger of the night. He sheathed Longclaw in the new scabbard he had placed on his back; leaving his hands free to tuck his black furred cloak tighter around his body.

The roomy cage finally clanged to a halt at the top of the wall, and Jon pulled it open, wondering why it was empty, protocol usually placed a Black Brother within to make sure the arriving guests atop the wall meant no harm. He didn't have the time or luxury to wonder why, and he plodded forward into the winch cage, tugging the garrons in along with him.

"We all go down together." He told Melisandre, whistling for Ghost, whose white furred bulk barely fit through the cage door before he shut it. Jon reached for the bell, coming short as the cage swung wide. "Pull the tassel," he told Melisandre, as she moved past it. She reached out a delicate fingered hand and pulled on the bell rope. The sound of the clapper echoed crazily against the hewn stone walls of the castle, and the cage began to drop.

Jon began to feel alarmed. The winch cage was descending much faster than he was used to. He tried to look around him, but all he could see were tiny specks below and the sheet of blue green ice that made up the Wall beside them. Faster and faster the winch cage fell, the wind whistling through the iron bars as the frozen sheet rushed past.

They were falling so quickly that Jon was half afraid those below had somehow cut the massive chain in an attempt to smash the lot of them to bits against the unyielding ground. He leaned back against the cold iron bars of the structure, muttering prayers to his gods of the North. Jon snuck a glance across from him and was surprised to see Melisandre, usually so composed and certain of her fate, fervently doing the same.

The cage jerked suddenly, swinging wild, and he knew their prayers had failed. Horses screamed around them and he collapsed to the crisscrossed metal below. A pained gasp beside him and a vicious snarl from the direwolf told him everything he needed to know, that when he opened his eyes he would behold his broken body and slip into the afterlife, a failure as the Promised Prince and the most short lived savior Westeros had ever known.

The jarring sound of raucous laughter caused Jon to crack an eyelid open. The cage swung a few feet off the ground, the Brothers at the Nightfort winch had barely kept it from dashing to pieces on the hard packed hoarfrost below. He looked out as the cage listed from side to side. Ringed around him were the shadows of the Queen's men, backlit and fading to darkness in the coming night, which fell much faster this far north. Jon could see the figures slouched in motley disarray that did not suit the order that Stannis or Selyse usually required.

"Are you all right?" He asked Melisandre, nervously waiting for her answer. To keep his hands from shaking, Jon reached over until his fingers came in contact with thick fur; he began stroking Ghost all over to make sure the direwolf was uninjured. One of the garrons was still screaming, he'd probably have to have the beast killed. _So much for my escape plan._

Jon heard a soft cough and moved closer, straining to hear her over the animals. "I've been better." She gasped, clutching her arms around her midsection, "One of the horses fell on me during the descent, I think I cracked something."

Jon switched his searching to the priestess, "Excuse me, milady." He apologized, feeling lightly along her ribs, some small bumps greeted his questing fingertips, confirming his fears, but only slightly. Maester Aemon's teachings had not fallen on deaf ears. "Lightly fractured, but nothing too severe, breathing will just make you wish these fools had taken more care with the winch chain."

"I'll cope." She told him, wincing and Jon was shocked to see an actual person start to break through the unflappable presence of the red priestess. "Just get me to a fire, and soon."

Jon turned to their strange hosts. "Is this how you greet guests?" He roared at them, angry beyond reason. "Are you not men of the Night's Watch, sworn to guard and defend the realms of men, all men?"

"I don't see any men here, boys, do you?" A voice called out of the darkness, one that Jon didn't recognize. "All's I see is Stannis' witch and a corpse."

"I am Lord Commander of the Night's Watch!" Jon yelled, trying to make his voice carry above both the wounded garron and the uncouth mutterings of the men. "You will obey and provide hospitality to us or I will charge every last man of you with treason against the Brotherhood."

No voices answered from the blackness, and that's when Jon felt the first fingers of fear slide up his spine. "There's no torches." He whispered to Melisandre, "It's pitch dark and freezing and they don't need torches or braziers."

"Only the light can conquer such darkness," she hissed at him through clenched teeth, "you are the Prince, Jon, now believe it."

"Believe it?" He unsheathed his sword and prepared to meet their silent attack. The glittering fire that ran along the blade lit up the darkness and he could finally see. "Oh right, fiery sword of...that prince."

"Azor Ahai." She reminded him, standing taller. The presence of the naked blade seemed to strengthen her. "Now get to work."

Jon's first stroke was to end his garron's suffering so that he could actually hear what was going on. A forceful kick to the dented cage door and Ghost bolted out into the night. Jon came trailing after, led by Ghost's growls and the sudden screams that followed. Pretending it was a group attack exercise back at Castle Black, Jon whirled and slashed, covering the ground systematically and cutting the enemy down inch by inch. Longclaw lit the night before him, but the blade's brightness left him night-blind.

He blocked and parried, feeling his sword catch on flesh and steel alike before Jon pulled it free to resume fighting. None of the attackers posed even half the threat that Qhorin Halfhand provided, and Jon relaxed into a rhythm, letting his other senses take the forefront as he realized he could defend himself much better by feel.

A yell behind him and Jon whirled to meet his attacker, feeling his weapon carve a deep notch into his opponent's blade as enchanted Valyrian steel met castle forged sword. He wrenched Longclaw free from the block and cut a wide swath against his foe's body. The open wound caught fire, which quickly engulfed the man, who screamed as the flames overtook him and he fell to the ground. Jon looked around, quickly realizing that every man he cut had suffered the same fate.

"Ghost, to me!" He called, and the large white animal appeared out of the darkness, nestling close to his side as he returned to the cage. "Melisandre?" Jon called, but the cage was empty, the remaining garron having run off during the fight.

"I'm fine now." Said a soft voice to his left, Jon had to clamp down on his reflexes to keep from reacting. "Thank you for caring." The soft kiss she pressed into his cheek made Jon blush, he was glad of the darkness and the ruddy light from his sword.

Now that he had secured the two most important members of his party, he scanned for enemies. There were too few bodies, bodies which had now burnt down to glowing embers, for the crowd he had seen at first glance. Where had the rest of them gone?

"We need to go into the castle, but who knows what we'll find in there, so before we run, I'd like to grab some supplies off that garron." Ghost and Melisandre stood guard as Jon rooted through the packs, clipping a saddle bag off of the animal and converting it into a satchel that would keep his sword arm free. "How do you feel?" Jon asked her, standing and adjusting the bag strap over his shoulder.

"I'm fine," she told him, her priestess persona firmly in place once more. "We need to keep moving."

Jon kept Longclaw at the ready before him, using the sword as brand to light up the darkness. There were several towers that opened out into the courtyard where the winch cage had landed. He chose the one that appeared to lead to the main dormitories and banquet hall.

"This way." He said, heading toward a heavy oaken door limned with iron studs the color of soot. Jon reached out a hesitant hand pressed hard against the old wood. To his surprise, the door swung open with a loud creak. He stepped through the portal and into the hallway, his footfalls loud against the stone. He felt like a green recruit once he realized Ghost and Melisandre padded forth silently. Jon heard a shuffling noise and turned in time to see the red woman take an unused torch off the wall and spark it to life without the aid of any flint or starter. He stared at her plaintively, as if to ask an explanation.

"The Lord of Light provides-"

"For those in need." Jon finished, unsuccessfully hiding his amazement. "Perhaps I'm starting to believe in your red god after all."

The hallway opened into a large common room with high vaulted ceilings. Jon kept towards the walls, his free hand trailing against the stone in hopes of finding a hidden catch or a tapestry hiding a tunnel entrance. The empty building started to set him on edge, where was everyone?

"Where is this hidden passage of yours?" Melisandre asked.

"I'm not quite sure." Jon told her. A large set of double doors stood at the end of the hall.

"Ghost." Jon called, pointing at them, and the big white wolf stood in front of them, considering the wood before he bunched his haunches and leapt at the doors. He passed through with no more sound than a creak of the hinges, and Jon waited, listening for the sounds of battle. Nothing happened.

He followed after his direwolf and found himself in the kitchens. A large animal carcass was skewered over a hearth in the corner, the meat mostly stripped from the bones. The most imposing things about the kitchen were a huge well that disappeared deep into the ground, as wide around as the height of two men combined, and a giant weirwood tree sprouting forth from a crack in the floor stones. The kitchens looked mostly unused, in any other castle, they would be bustling with activity even late into the evening, and night had just fallen.

Jon peeked back out through the entrance doors, summoning Melisandre in with a wave and a single finger to his lips. She nodded and came in quietly. After looking around, her body immediately came to life with wary signs of alertness.

"We need to leave," she said, her voice a harsh whisper, "as soon as we can."

"But there's no one here." Jon responded, trying to piece the puzzle of the empty kitchen together. "There's _always_ someone in the kitchens, tending to the hearth. No matter the time of night." He knelt next to the well, sweeping his bare fingers through the traces of ash that remained on the floor. Ever since the pyre he'd abandoned his practice of wearing gloves over his burnt fingers, he would no longer hide what he was from anyone. "Someone made a fire here, next to the well, but why, when the hearth's right-" Jon took the few steps toward the carcass on the spit, recoiling when he realized it was no animal at all.

"Jon!" Melisandre hissed at him, her hand already pressed against the door as she prepared to escape.

"Who would..." Jon started to ask, before a singsong voice from the great hall interrupted him and chilled him to his core.

"Under the sea, the little fish eat the big fish, I know, I know, oh, oh, oh."

The tinkling sound of bells matched a child's high pitched giggle. "Oh Patches, Ser Narbert was no fish, you know that, and besides, we don't eat those this far from Dragonstone."

"Hush child," it was the haughty tones of Selyse Florent, self-styled Queen of the Andals since the Targaryen girl had yet to set foot on Westerosi soil. "We must find them before they cause trouble in the castle and undo all of our good works."

Patchface agreed with a jingling nod of his head. "Under the sea, the ice is warm and fire cannot catch, I know, I know, oh, oh, oh."

"They're here somewhere, my Queen, I can smell the heat of their blood." Jon recognized the third voice, it was the voice of Gerrick Kingsblood's son, a boy he had hoped would remain safe, so long as he remained hostage to Castle Black and kept under the Watch's tutelage. It would seem that his brothers were less than obedient following Jon's betrayal.

"They're coming closer." Melisandre reported, taking backward steps from the portal but never tearing her eyes away from the wooden surface.

"We need to find another way out." Jon said, looking around the room for anything that could serve as an escape route. "What about...?" He pointed to the well and Melisandre's eyes followed, just in time to watch Ghost's white pelt vanish as he leapt into the darkness.

"Ghost!" Jon shouted, forgetting himself.

"The kitchens!" Kingsblood's voice bellowed from the great hall, and he knew they only had moments before the Nightfort's rulers were upon them.

Jon turned and drew Longclaw, ready to fight, but Melisandre had another idea. She ran from the door, grabbing Jon's free hand as she lunged past and started to drag him in the direction of the well.

"Remember what I told you about trusting in faith?" She reminded him. "It's time to put that to the test."

Jon turned with her and they both entered the gaping maw of the well together. He was expecting a steep and sudden drop, and was surprised when he slammed a knee into a set of cleverly hewn steps that lead down the well in a dizzying spiral. Melisandre recovered her wits just ahead of him, hurrying down the stairs as Jon heard the clattering bootsteps of their pursuers burst into the kitchen.

"Where are they?" Selyse's voice filled the room and poured down the well. "Find them, Kingsblood, find them now or next time you'll be the one on the spit."

Jon kept moving, he had sheathed Longclaw as he made his way down the steps so that he could use both hands for balance, and now he was glad of it, the brilliant light the blade gave off would have the Kingsblood boy down on them in a heartbeat.

Jon would have enjoyed some light in the darkness though, he could only hope Melisandre was still in front of him, he tried his best to keep his steps silent while making his way to the bottom as fast as he could. The voices began to fade and distort as he went further and further down the well. Jon began to wonder how far down the steps went when he bumped into Melisandre at the bottom, startling the both of them.

"Look, Jon, look at what Ghost has found."

He did. The wolf was placidly sitting on his haunches in front of a carved weirwood, its face that of a very old man who seemed to be sleeping. The wood itself gave off a soft, milky white glow. Jon approached it slowly, "It's a heart tree." He said. "It's strange though, usually the eyes are open. What is it doing all the way down here?" Jon ran his hands across the surface of the tree, stopping near the tightly shut eye slits. He stifled a scream when they opened wide and stared at him.

"Who are you?" The wrinkled face asked, the 'who' echoing softly all around them.

"I am Jon Snow, former Lord Commander of the Night's Watch of Castle Black." The milky eyes continued to stare and Jon realized the tree was blind.

"Who _are _you?" It asked again, and this time louder, the first word surrounding them in a rising crescendo.

"I am Jon Snow, bastard son of Ned Stark of Winterfell."

"_Who are you?"_ The tree asked once more, and this time the noise was deafening. Jon could hear the thrum of activity above him, including shouts of 'the well, in the well.' He looked deep inside himself and found an answer for the heart tree.

"I am the sword in the darkness." Jon said, and drew his flaming sword, hoping that he was right this time, that the tree would let them pass before the occupants of Nightfort arrived to kill or enslave them. "I am the fire that burns against the cold, the light that brings the dawn, the horn that wakes the sleepers."

Ghost growled beside him, his hackles rising, and he knew they were out of time. "I am the shield that guards the realms of men."

"Then pass," the door said, and all around them, chaos erupted.


End file.
